


New Order

by belana



Series: New Order [1]
Category: Crows Zero (2007)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 07:24:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8135284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belana/pseuds/belana
Summary: Takiya Genji takes up the reins of Ryuseikai, but not everyone is happy about it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Новый порядок](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7087603) by [pen_pusher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pen_pusher/pseuds/pen_pusher). 



> This text is not propaganda of violence, drug use, crime, corruption, gay sex or medical operation outside of hospitals. And don't try this at home (с).

_Women are to blame,_ Izaki Shun thinks.

It takes an effort to think like he’s moving sacks of cement. How many are there? How many does he need to load? Shift captain is going to insult him, call names and threaten to half his pay.

Present and past mix up like cables of cheap headphones. He has no patience; he wants to pull it harder to untangle the mess. The isolation is already cracking, though, showing copper veins like wind blowing, baring knees of a schoolgirl.

 _Right. Women are to blame._ Izaki clings to that thought like a fish swallowing a hook.

It’s getting harder to think. He doesn’t want to. He wants to close his eyes and curl up to feel warmer — like he did when he visited his grandmother and played in the snow till his lips turned blue. He used to crawl under the blanket and curl up while a big tomcat warmed his feet, purring.

“Izaki?” Takiya’s low voice comes from a distance like he’s the one under the blanket and purrs there. Or growls. “Stay with me, man.”

 _Right, it’s Takyia, not the cat._ And his grandmother had a she-cat.

_Women. They are to blame._

“Mikami? I’m losing him.”

“It’s the shock…”

“…probably…”

“We’ve only read about it…”

“But the symptoms are similar…”

“Is he sweating?”

“He’s looks like a drowned cat.”

The twins’ voices pour out of the cell phone that's lying on the ground. It seems to Izaki that one Mikami is whispering in his left ear, the other — into his right one. Which is which? Have they been lying together? He should ask Kirishima how twins do it. But Kirishima is a dentist, not an obstetrician, how should he know?

“I got it. Izaki, don’t close your eyes! Look at me!”

Serizawa bends so low that Izaki can smell his cigarettes and some shitty food. Serizawa has long hair and thick eyelashes. He has languid eyes. _Why does he need such big eyes? He looks like a girl._ Serizawa looks like a girl with a beard.

_Yes, they are to blame. Serizawa and girls. Why Serizawa, though?_

“Shut his mouth.”

“Izaki, breathe through your nose. Do you hear me?”

Dirty fingers unclench his jaw and force a dirty rag into his mouth. It reeks of machine oil and window cleaner.

“I found only this, sorry.”

“Whatever, give me the powder.”

Takiya opens up a plump sachet and empties its contents onto the wound.

Izaki’s eyes well up with tears. He must have shouted — through the rag in his mouth — but he can’t hear it. His ears are ringing.

“Did you get pliers?”

Takyia racks the slide, a bullet falls out onto his dirty palm. Izaki sees the pliers clenching the shell while Takiya hold the bullet itself with his teeth and carefully pulls it out. He sees Takiya grit his teeth, his shoulder blades are trying to rip the shirt open like growing wings.

“This will hurt.”

Gunpowder burns the wound, but it’s only the beginning. Takiya searches his pockets, strikes a match and sets the gunpowder on fire. A flash blinds Izaki, he doesn’t understand if it’s the gunpowder or the pain.

“Mikami? Now what?”

“Did you cauterize it?”

“Blood stopped leaking.”

“Bring him here…”

“And make sure he’s conscious…”

“…We won’t be able to turn him back on again.”

“Izaki? Talk to me, man.”

The rag leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He can’t even spit the remnants of machine oil and window cleaner.

Takiya checks the tourniquet — his own white belt, tied to Izaki’s thigh above the wound. The belt is now more red than white. And Takiya’s pants are falling off him, his butt is showing — just the top.

“Pull up your pants,” Izaki wheezes.

“You, idiot,” Serizawa smiles and grabs him under his arms.

“Women are to blame.” Izaki winces when Takiya grabs his ankles.

“Greed is to blame,” Serizawa pants, while the two of them drag Izaki to the car.

 

* * *

 

“Where's everyone?”

Izaki closes the door and looks around the room, filled with boxes. Takiya is standing near the window, smoking a cigarette, with his hands thrust into his pockets.

“Everyone's here,” he mutters without turning his head.

“Aren’t your sergeants going to be angry?” Izaki sits on top of the long conference table, notices a coffee cup and looks inside. “Is this for me?”

“Sure,” Takiya waves him off and finally looks him in the eye. “I don’t trust them.”

“Good.” Coffee is cold and disgusting, bt Izaki drinks it anyway, blocking out the aftertaste of the night. “No one can be trusted these days. Even me.”

“I trust you.”

“Hmm?”

“Those two millions ended up on your account by mistake, I gather.”

“You know how these things happen,” Izaki shrugs.

He keeps a straight face, but licks his lips nervously.

“I know,” Takiya agrees. “I know that you’ll return it later. But that’s beside the point now.”

Grey walls are oppressive and make the room smaller. The family changed the location of the headquarters twice in the last month. There weren’t enough time to settle down properly, and there was no point in that: in a week they’ll abandon this building for another, unexposed one.

Izaki thinks that he’s not paid enough for the risks and stepping into the breach. He wants to remind Takiya that he didn’t sign up to be his crisis manager, but bites it back.

“What is the share of income from the girls?” Takiya asks.

“Forty percent.”

“That’s a lot.”

“What can I say? We need to grow. I’ve been proposing for a while now to take on government contracts.”

“You know my opinion. Everything apart from drugs at schools is game.”

“Drugs to gaijins only, I remember that, Genji.”

“So how the girls were doing in the last month?”

“The income decreased by seventy five percent in the last month. Its share in all our income dropped to less than one tenth of a percent.”

“That’s not good.”

“I agree.” He puts away an empty cup and stares at Takiya. “But you know all the circumstances. They’re afraid to work, we can’t make them. I mean, all of them. We don’t have enough men to drag each girl to her workplace. We have one on each station and several in the docks.”

“That’s not enough.”

“A month ago one of our girls was attacked with acid. We decided then that it was an unsatisfied client or a jealous boyfriend. We found another girl cut to pieces by the roadside a week later. Now no one wants to take chances. There are few of those who have nothing to lose.”

“And you think it’s not a coincidence.”

Izaki shakes his head, tapping his heal on the chair leg.

“There’s a system, Genji. Someone is trying to get rid of us.”

“And you know who that is.”

“It’s really simple. Boys from neighboring territory get all our income from prostitution. We still have massage parlours and two private clubs, but street girls don’t bring any money now. We spend more on boys who guard them than they earn per night. And clients are used to having a choice. If there’s only one girl by the road and she’s not fresh-faced enough, he won’t stop.”

“And he’ll drive on to Taisho,” Takiya nods.

“Right.”

“That’s interesting information, Izaki.” Takiya puts out his cigarette. “Because they called me today.”

“They?”

“Yes. They offered us to meet.”

“Why?”

“To discuss our common interests, a possibility of merging.”

“What do you mean, ‘merging’?”

“We’ll go and find out.”

“Are you going to go?”

“I’m not about to run away from some street thugs.”

“This is stupid idea, Genji. It’s a trap, don’t fall for it.”

“I’ve already agreed.”

Izaki crumples a paper cup in his fingers, wishing he could wring certain someone’s sinewy neck.

“Where is the meeting?”

“In the abandoned fire station near the railway.”

Izaki knew that place: it was an artificial island between Sumitoe and Taisho, a sand fill, several square miles of neutral territory.

“Good. I’ll gather the men.” Izaki rises and goes to the door.

“No.” Takiya’s brisk voice cuts almost like a whip. “I’m going alone. That was the deal.”

“You came to the meeting with me alone.” Izaki falls into this frigid anger as if it were an ice-hole. “Do you remember how it ended?”

“I’m not a schoolboy, Shun. And you’re not my mother. You can stay if you’re scared.”

“I’ll be scared when Hideo shows up and asks me where his beloved son is.” Izaki pulls the door knob — it almost ends up in his hands. They’re actually shit at building houses. “You can forget about two millions. I don’t risk my neck for nothing.”

 

* * *

 

The Nanko fire station's been empty for as long as Izaki can remember. As a boy he snooped around it, looking for adventures and finding bruises. Boys used to pretend to be rescuers, superheroes, treasure hunters and special agents there. They jumped over ruins, between used syringes and condoms, they played on broken glass and crushed bricks. They grazed skin off their palms while sliding poles firemen usually used. Their mothers racked their brain as to how scrub dust and blood off the boys' only school uniform.

Now Izaki pulls under a wide arch without gates in Takiya's BMW — with Takiya himself sitting in the backseat — he has two guns tucked under his belt. Basically it's the same game, only now the loser pays not in chocolate bars, but in a business, worth millions.

A bouncer, dressed in a suit about two sizes too small, stops them at the entrance to the garage. Izaki leaves the car and opens the door for his boss. Takiya gets out, slowly takes off his sunglasses and puts them into his jacket pocket. He smooths down the lapels and glares around.

When another bouncer, a twin to the first one, but shorter and less muscled, approaches to pat them over Izaki stops him.

"We came to a business meeting, we're alone as was the deal. We respect the rules and hope to be treated decently."

He looks peaceful with his hands in the air, but Izaki is ready for everything: to run or to shoot, depending on the situation.

"Let them through." A bigger fish appears from behind the bouncers' backs. "We respect the rules too."

Takiya steps forward, Izaki follows him like a shadow. If it were up to him he'd have turned around and left before it was too late.

The garage, where the meeting is taking place, is huge, like a thousand square meters, and totally empty. There are only cement supporting columns, garbage and a wide folding table near the front entrance. Four chairs were occupied, two were empty: Takiya'd sent a message that he'd be coming with an aide.

Izaki sits down, putting the chair away from the table so he could easily jump up at any moment and feels two guards stand behind his back. They're armed and don't even try to hide it.

Takiya sits down on the chair, unbuttoning his coat.

"Takiya-san." The man across the table smiles like a sated shark. These creatures never refuse food, no matter when or what they consumed last. "I'm glad to finally meet the youngest head of Ryuseikai. Your family isn't that old, is it? How is your father doing? I've heard he's serving his sentence here, in Osaka. Convenient, don't you think? It's a very short ride."

After Yazaki's death his clan's turned into a mess. Leaders are changing more often than in Suzuran, no one holds the reins for longer than six months. Everyone ends their career in the Nangokai port. Izaki doesn't understand why heads of Yamaguchi-gumi (Yazaki clan is officially a part of them) don't do anything about it. On the other hand, Yamaguchi-gumi are in a different league, and Izaki can't play with such high stakes yet, so he can only watch and learn from a distance.

Misano Chijuro, the current underboss of Taisho, received the post over six months ago and doesn't plan to become fish food. As far as Izaki knows, Misano was first sentenced in the middle school — for murder right from the start. He changed little since then, amiable smile on his round clean-shaven face means trouble.

It's rumoured that he has connections in prison so his interest in Hideo's fate could more of a warning than a courtesy.

 _I have to see Hideo-san_ , Izaki thinks. _The sooner the better_.

"I know, Genji, that it's hard on you." Misano looks at Takiya with carefully measured compassion. An address by name only irritates Izaki. "To become a leader of a whole family at the age of twenty six is unheard of. People twice your age are not always up to the task, who will blame you? Not I. My family feels for you, Genji, and humbly offers help."

 _You, bastard, don't look humble at all,_ Izaki thinks. Judging by the gloomy face, Takiya thinks the same and regrets coming here.

"What sort of help?" he asks hoarsely, thrusting his chin forward.

"I've heard some street gangs interfere with your business. Someone attacks your girls," Misano evades the issue. "Your family is losing money. In a little while you won't be able to pay your men for their hard work."

Takiya has nothing to say. He presses his lips together, frowns and tries to understand what this old fox has in mind.

Izaki already knows, and you know what? Thanks, but no thanks.

He leans back in his chair, spreads his legs wider and puts his hands on his thighs. Both guns could be drawn in a blink of an eye from that position. Not now, though.

"There is a managerial crisis in Ryuseikai. The clan is on the brink of demise. Many people are not shy of airing their grievances about the new leader — you, Genji. It's unpleasant, but it's no surprise. People are generally ungrateful creatures. I know what I'm talking about."

 _Unfortunately, the bastard is right,_ Izaki thinks. What Takiya thinks is unclear. Judging by his hunched shoulders it's nothing good.

Misano is already celebrating: the expression of compassion and understanding vanishes, exposing unpleasant triumphant grin. If he thinks Takiya will simply agree to hand him over his business he's either an idiot or...

"Since the dawn of time clans united to survive. The stronger ones protected the weaker ones, the weaker ones brought new blood. I'm offering protection for you, your family and your father. I promise I won't abuse your men — each of them will receive his share. Maybe it will decrease a little, the times are harsh..."

Izaki sees shadows forming near the columns out of the corner of his eye. New people appear near the table, they are armed and ready to fire. Takiya notices them too and rises.

"My goal is to save my family, not sell it for phantom protection. I'm sorry, Misano-san, there will be no deal."

Taisho underboss sighs and wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. When his hand lowers the first shots are fired.

Izaki sees a round of bullets pierce Genji's chest, dives under the table, dragging him under too. He was hit several times too, his ribs are aching. Bulletproof vests are no protection against bruises.

"Finish them off."

Misano and his advisers leave, only security men remain in the room. Izaki shoots at their feet, but aim is shit when you're hiding like a rat. So he kicks away the chair and jumps on the table. Genji materializes at his side — he's covering Izaki's back.

Izaki can shoot two guns simultaneously. It's a very useful skill when there are only two of you and at least six of them.

"I told you this was a trap," he shouts.

"And I told you to stay home if you were scared."

Izaki wounded Misano's underling, but he manages to pull his trigger before disappearing out of sight. The barrel twitches and moves down — the stray bullet hits Izaki's thigh instead of well-protected chest.

Izaki falls sideways, dirty floor becomes suddenly closer, Takiya's shoulder materializes under his cheek, wiry arms catch him under the armpits.

Blood spurts like there is fountain in Izaki's leg, he find it unexpectedly funny.

"So stupid!" Izaki chokes on laughter. It's getting dark; darkness eats up farthest walls, nearest columns, even Takiya.

"Izaki!" Someone shakes him. Takiya looks him in the eye, he's pale like it was him who just got screwed over. "This is no time for messing about. Put pressure on the wound. With your fist, you idiot."

He sounds so alarmed that Izaki decides not to argue. He presses on the wound — _With both hands, are you watching, Takiya?_ — but it seems something is pushing back. Blood hits his knuckles like a rising tide. Right, they are at the seaside. The shore is about two hundred meters away. Genji will carry him to the water if push comes to shove.

"Stop getting comfortable here." Takiya sits him on his coat, spread on the dirty floor, holding his shoulders. He puts Izaki's leg over his knee, pulls his belt out and winds it twice around Izaki's thigh.

"Hands off."

Izaki realizes that the fountain was closed for the winter. There is only a drying swamp freezing like him. He wants to get into a car, switch the heater on and doze off till they arrive to the office...

"Izaki!" Genji fastens the belt and looks at him with eyes dark like the business end of a gun. "Stay with me, do you hear? Everything will be fine, bro. I promise."

"Stop babbling," Izaki smiles. "I'll just rest here, ok?"

Takiya looks around with haunted, angry eyes and gently lowers Izaki's head onto his lap.

"Everything is going to be fine," he repeats quieter, patting Izaki's hair with blood-covered hands. It turns red. "Everything will be fine."

Izaki doesn't hear a car arrive. At the moment he's shit at hearing anything, he's got his own melody, a rhythm measured by his heartbeat. It beats in his ears, in his numbing fingertips.

He doesn't hear careful steps and glass braking, crunching under boots.

"Lower the gun, Takiya, it's me."

"Serizawa?"

Izaki opens his eyes to stare at a badge, glinting in low light, with unfocused eyes. What is it made of? It's probably copper with some sort of fake-gold coating. He'll have to google it at home if his wife didn't forget to pay for the Internet again. She's been forgetting a lot lately, she says it's because of the pregnancy. Women have many excuses that he can't argue with.

"What happened? I received a call."

"Women are to blame," Izaki gasps hoarsely.

"Do you have a first-aid kit?" Takiya asks without paying any attention to Izaki.

"Yes."

"Bring it here." Genji bends down, rummages through his coat pockets and pulls out his phone. "Do you have cocaine with you?"

"What?" Serizawa's eyes are big and innocent. The question cut him to the bone.

"Cocaine," Genji repeats stubbornly. "I know the way you work."

"You know what, such accusations..."

"Serizawa, sepsis and shock will set in in a few minutes. You have one."

Serizawa turns around, walks several steps to the open doors and starts running.

"And find pliers," Takiya adds at his retreating back. "Or nippers. Hurry up!"

"A corrupt cop is a chore boy for the yakuza," Izaki smiles. "Funny."

"Too funny for words," Takiya grumbles and adds into the phone, "Mikami? I need your help."

 

* * *

 

"Wow!" The twin, hovering at the entrance to a small building with the sigh turned off and unlit windows, throws away an unfinished cigarette. "I want to have a ride with a flasher!"

Izaki hears his loud enthusiastic voice of a toddler from the backseat of a police car.

"Let's go, bro." Genji swoops him like an oversized BJD doll. "It's time to get medical treatment. Hey, quacks, are you ready?"

"We're not quacks..." the other Mikami says from the threshold, keeping the door open.

"...we're vets..."

"Vets are doctors too."

"Fuck," Izaki murmurs, trying to swallow a dusty lump in his throat.

"He needs a drink," Serizawa, who comes in last, muses. He checks the empty street, closes the door and makes sure blinds are down.

"It's a good tourniquet," a Mikami compliments him. This one has blond temples. Izaki decided to call him a blond one, he can't remember the twins' names anyway. "But he's forbidden alcohol for the time being."

The other twin, dark-haired for a change, washes his hands and puts on thin surgical gloves — almost like a real doctor. He even puts a face mask on like a granny in a subway after hearing about Ebola fever.

Izaki realizes that he's been thinking about his grandma too many times this evening. He's got to visit her, show her the grandson. That is, if he ever gets off this uncomfortable table that wasn't made to fit humans.

"Izaki, do you have an allergy to lidocaine?"

"No idea," he exhales.

"You don't, good." The twins nod at each other with approval.

"He's about sixty kilograms," the blond one notes. "Like an Irish wolfhound."

"Don't remind me! That beast almost bit my hand off when you fucked up anesthesia."

"I was following the instructions!"

"I asked you to check the information in the textbooks!"

"I'll step out for a smoke." Genji can't take it anymore.

"Stop right there, both of you." The Mikamis wheel a trolley closer and turn Izaki's head toward a monitor. "Look here, man, this is your blood pressure. And this is the pulse. It's like _House M.D_."

"More like _Dr. Dolittle_."

"Give us a shout if any of them turns flat."

Sleepiness presses on him in the warmth of the room like river mud a meter thick, he sees the point of the joke a bit too late, but has no strength to laugh.

"Why do you need us?" Serizawa asks.

"Do you have hepatitis? Do you use drugs? Did you have unprotected sex in the last two months?"

They get three no's from both Serizawa and Takiya and rub their hands together.

"Good. You'll be blood donors."

"What about the blood type?"

"He's got AB-." The blond Mikami shows the express medical information card. "He's the perfect recipient."

Izaki shifts his blurred gaze from the monitor to the twins' backs and realizes with sluggish astonishment that they are one well-oiled four-handed mechanism. The twins slap quickly, but precisely the crease of the boys' elbows, praising their healthy veins. Needles bite Serizawa and Takiya, transparent tubes fill with blood. Izaki's fingertips are tingling a little as if he put his cold hands under hot water. There is a thin buzzing in his ears. His head is getting heavy as if his veins were filled with alcohol, not blood.

"Hey, Izaki, do you want to see your insides?"

"Izaki, maybe you have wires there like the Terminator."

"The Terminator has titanium alloy inside," pale Takiya remarks. He sits on Izaki's right, clenching and unclenching his fist. "Robocop has wires."

"Robocop is in Serizawa's line of work," Izaki mumbles. He prefers to stare at the monitor. What if the lines do turn flat?

"I always wanted to practice vascular surgery," the blond twin drawls dreamily, poking in the wound.

Out if the corner of his eye Izaki sees his hands move, but doesn't feel a thing and doesn't know if it's good or bad news. It seems to him that if he shuts his eyes or looks away his leg will disappear.

"Manabu, take the forceps out... Check run... Let's see if you're leaking, Izaki... Oh shit."

"That's where it all went wrong."

"Right. I'm on it."

"Take higher a bit."

"Stop babbling, I'm working... Now, let go."

Izaki stops breathing until he hears hands clap.

"Drain and bandage."

"Did it work?" Takiya asks quietly. Izaki wants to wring his neck for uncertainty in his voice. Did he drag him to unlicensed surgeons, not knowing if they'd kill or save him?

"You'll limp for about two months," the blond Mikami says, crouching so he looks Izaki in the eye. He smells of antiseptic, blood and burnt flesh. "All women will be yours."

"We'll stitch you up in five days or so. Don't be alarmed if it festers. I got rid of all necrotic tissue, but still. Even a stag can sometimes... Erm."

Serizawa, sitting on Izaki's left, turns a little greenish and takes a deep breath.

Izaki must look approximately the same because Mikami claps him on the shoulder.

"In any case, we have a friend, who makes awesome artificial limbs. Relax. Hey, it was a joke! Dogs are not that emotional. Genji, pass that bottle on your left. Izaki, smell this and stop behaving like a girl, for god's sake..."

Women.

 _Women are to blame_ , Izaki Shun thinks, wincing from smell of ammonia spirit. _Women and greed_.

 

* * *

 

The prison visiting room smells of mildew, sweat and boiled peas, light green paint is peeling off the walls. It's so ancient that it seems a petroglyphic drawings of Ainu will emerge if one removes the paint with a spatula or a knife. Here is a Paleolithic poacher shooting down a mammoth; here he's running away from Paleolithic policemen, wielding stone axes; here he's moping around in a cell, made of eighteen meters long horsetail, and scribbling a love note to his woman in limestone walls.

Takiya Hideo sits in the prison's visiting room, facing away from a wide gridded window. There is no one there apart from him and guards — visiting day is Saturday, three days from now.

Hideo-san, dressed in a green prison jumpsuit, with his hair cut short, looks like an army officer, and he also look very young in the morning light, like his son's older brother. Genji, on the other hand, looks like shit as if he didn't simply get enough sleep, but aged ten years in a day.

Despite that, Izaki can barely keep up with him, leaning heavily on a cane and limping.

"Nice." Hideo-san shakes his head.

"Women love it," Izaki smiles, slowly sitting down on a folding chair.

"What's the commotion about?" Takiya-san asks his son.

Genji folds his coat and puts it on his knees.

"The Misano family waged war on us."

"Their man approached me." Hideo-san doesn't look surprised. "He insisted that I talk you out of it."

"Does this mean I'm doing the right thing?"

"You didn't have much of a choice. While you," he points a finger at Izaki, "were not to be shot at."

"It's my job."

"Your job is to think and give sound advice."

Izaki twists the cane in his hands, biting his lips. He knows he was careless: he didn't insist on backup, he let Genji step into a trap alone. Now he'd have planned the meeting differently, but the past can't be changed. The bottom line is it all worked out with minimum blood (Izaki's blood, which was important).

"My bad." He bows his head, but doesn't look down.

Hideo-san looks him up and down, then nods slowly, accepting the apology.

"Why did you come to me?"

"You need to lay low in a safe place until we deal with Misano and his family," Genji says.

"I'm too old for isolation cell."

"You're not old enough for a place at a cemetery."

Takiya-san smirks, caressing the uneven edge of the table, bolted to the floor. His fingernails are well manicured.

"Alright," he says finally. "I give you two weeks. Damp air is bad for my health, I don't want to have radiculitis."

Genji rises, putting his coat over his arm.

"A shank is more dangerous," he says curtly. "Ointment won't help treating such a wound."

Izaki turns around, leaning on the cane, and sees Takiya-san approach a guard.

"I'm sorry, Keita," he says quite sincerely, then hits him square in the solar plexus.

The guard gasps loudly, dropping to the floor. Genji winces. Izaki thinks that Genji knows what that punch feels like.

The second guard recoils, but doesn't interfere and says something into his walkie-talkie. There is a sound of running feet outside. A siren is wailing.

"Takiya, have you gone mad?" the head of prison block shrieks after running into the room with more guards at his heels. He is red and pasty-faced, he looks confused and angry.

Hideo-san shrugs and thrusts his hands forward with a smile, letting them handcuff him.

"Two weeks, Genji," he says a little louder to his son's retreating back.

"I got it."

Izaki limps after Genji and ponders if fourteen days are enough.

As if they have a choice.

 

* * *

Fifteen minutes before midnight a schooner approaches the coast of the Okinishima island. There is a crooked inscription _Hope_ in Cyrillic letters on the slightly rusted right side.

"Well, what is it?" the captain asks his first mate, who just entered the cabin. "Did the Japs change something else too?"

"No." A heavyset sailor shakes raindrops off his windbreaker. "We drop the cargo on the island and leave."

At midnight an overloaded boat hits the sandy beach. Four sailors jump out, drag the rust-bucket ashore and start unloading plastic boxes, smelling of crabs and herring.

There is a single-deck motor yacht nearby, it has calligraphic kanji _Sea Dragon_ on its side. Its crew is on the shore, watching the unloading and talking in Japanese quietly.

"Why aren't we meeting in the port as was the agreement?" the mate from _Hope_ asks one of them. "Are there problems with coast guards?"

"More like problems with the police," comes a heavy-accented reply.

"We don't care, really. The cargo was paid for, the rest is your problem."

The strange logic of these Russians puzzles the Japanese man: why ask a question if you don't care about the answer? He keeps his thoughts to himself, though.

"Is that everything?"

"Fourteen boxes."

The Japanese nods to his men, they open one: firearm butts, barrels, rows of unopened ammo boxes glint dimly in the rays of flashlights. The plastic box is immediately closed so that the rain doesn't soak its contents and is promptly dragged to the motor yacht.

"Make two rounds," the Russian advises, jumps into his own boat and immediately leaves the shore with his men.

Three hours later the empty yacht returns to its home port while a convoy of SUVs drives on an empty highway.

A passenger in the front seat of the leading car dials a number from memory and says into the phone, "We've got the cargo."

"What's in there?"

"Guns, assault rifles, ammo... Looks like they're getting ready for a real war."

"It's a good thing we acted with dispatch, then. I'm waiting for you at home, bro."

A commander of an assault team runs out of patience approximately at the same time — but in Izumisano. He's sick of soaking in the rain in the windswept port so he gives a go-ahead.

Cold and angry agents run from behind a hangar, where they were hiding, and surround the people gathered on a pier, pointing guns at them.

"Down on the ground, hands behind your head! This is the police!"

A shadow detaches from faceless crowd, steps away, pulling off a balaclava, and pulls a phone out of a pocket.

"We captured Misano's men, ten of them. I'll still be skinned in the morning, though, because the cargo didn't arrive."

"Well, that's a pity," comes a feigned sigh. "Do you have anything to accuse them of?"

"One of them called some Russian, asking about guns he paid for."

"See, Serizawa, things are looking up. Maybe you'll be promoted soon."

"Fuck you, Izaki. Someday I'll hand your sorry asses to the police."

 

* * *

 

The office is dark. The light is off, blinds are drawn so not a single ray of light peeks through, even though the street is bright as if it were already Christmas: silvery snow glitters and doesn't melt. Temperature has been a little below 0° C for the last three days.

A door slams. A lock clicks hungrily.

"Any complaints?" a doctor asks tiredly.

"I'm hurting, doctor," Izaki confesses with feigned feeling.

"How intensive is your pain on the scale from one to ten?"

"Nine," he replies without hesitation.

The doctor sighs, comes closer to the patient, sprawled comfortably in a dentist's chair.

"And if you stop bullshiting me?"

"Seven."

"You'll bear."

The doctor turns the lamp on and lowers it.

"Take your trousers off."

"Just like that?" Izaki arches a brow mockingly.

The doctor is not amused: his shift began at 7 a.m., it's 7.30 p.m. now, and he doesn't know when he'll be going home. Considering the queue in the corridor and evening traffic, he'll stumble into his house around 10 p.m., hug his wife, eat a cold dinner, shower and fall asleep like a log.

A belt buckle clicks quietly, a zipper sighs suggestively.

"Get your ass off the chair," the doctor snaps. The trousers are finally around the patient's knees. "When did you last change the dressing?"

"This morning," Izaki replies reluctantly.

He hates changing the dressing: it seems the wound just started healing when it's disturbed again. Bandages stick to the wound, they have to be dampened. Hydrogen peroxide hisses like baking soda mixed with vinegar, skin around the wound is yellowish because of iodine and itches terribly.

"Your thigh looks like a vein of a drug addict," the doctor comments on multiple injection marks.

Izaki closes his eyes, hiding from the blinding lamp light, and puts his hands behind his head as if he's about to nap. He hears the door of a safe, where strong medicine is kept, squeak, he hears an ampule break and licks his lips in anticipation. He's shaking either because of pain or impatience — probably both.

A sponge, drenched in alcohol, is cool, a thin needle pierces the skin, the liquid is sprinkled into muscles. Pleasant numbing replaces pain as if ice was placed on his leg. This is just the beginning, the medicine will fully kick in about ten minutes later — by that time Kirishima will finish treating the wound.

He has warm fingers (Izaki feels it through latex gloves) and wide hands. Kirishima knows where not to touch and where to push and caress. His breath is even hotter especially when underwear is out of the way.

Kirishima takes Izaki's half-hard cock in his hand. His skin is dry, rough and covered in tiny cracks from antiseptic soap, but it's even better this way.

Izaki knows that promedol is a comparatively safe opiate. It depresses central nervous system a little, doesn't cause hypersensitivity and doesn't preclude one from having sex. It causes sleepiness, of course, but it will come in about forty minutes. Neither the doctor nor the patient needs that much time.

"Step closer," Izaki demands hoarsely.

Kirishima's coat is unbuttoned, but Izaki had to fumble with his trousers. His fingers are numb which is strange, his head is clear (at least he thinks so).

Kirishima is true to his school habits and still tucks his penis sideways. When it grows erect it looks like the good doctor put a folded newspaper in his pocket, a thick weekly one,  smooth and velvety.

Izaki traces the head with his fingers, pulling the skin back. Kirishima repeats that motion with his mouth, blowing him off when sempai's fist closes on his dick.

A nurse asks patients to wait a little just outside the door. There were outraged yells and guilty mumbling. Kirishima should probably feel ashamed, but people have toothache every day while intimacy with this man happens once a month at best. It happens a little more often lately, but Kirishima is not excited about it. Meetings with sempai become more and more shady, uncomfortably so.

"I'll get you a taxi," he says when Izaki can't button up. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. He'll fall asleep before he arrives home on his own or he'll cause a traffic accident.

"I parked near the front door," Izaki says, and Kirishima realizes that he can hardly speak.

"I'll move the car, give me the keys."

Kirishima leaves the office and dials the number of his favourite taxi. Patients jump up, he indifferently promises to admit them in ten minutes and pushes a button to warm up the engine.

Izaki blinks slowly, staring at the ceiling. He wants to turn the light off, but had no will to reach out for the switch, so he simply closes his eyes and drifts off.

When he hears shots Izaki dully estimates its speed and frequency: it must be British M16, several of them. Judging by the noise the shootout is close, almost next door, near the place where he parked his car.

The drug slows cognitive process: it takes Izaki a while to put two and two together. When he runs out of the front door black smoke is coming from under the hood, fire is licking the underside of the car.

The driver doesn't move, he's slumped forward. Izaki sees the top of his head, bloodied temple and a leather jacket on top of a white coat.

"Kirishima!"

Several meters to the car seem endless. Gas tank booms, the top of the car is ripped off, the car itself is on fire, it hungrily licks the windscreen, covered in cracks.

"Stop right there, you idiot!" Someone wraps an arm around Izaki's shoulders, blocking him. Izaki is easy to overwhelm now, but he still wriggles, almost breaking free.

"Kirishi..."

The explosion causes several windows in the offices to shatter. Someone in the building screams.

Izaki is silent. He just stepped over the line that separates business from vendetta, but didn't realize it yet. He only knows that he won't rest till he personally strangles every one of Misano's rats — even if it won't bring his kohai back.

"Get up, the police will be here in a few minutes."

Izaki pays no attention to the disrespectful note in the voice, allows someone to pull him to his feet and walks as if through smokescreen, focusing on a white blur ahead.

"I'll drive you home, it'll be safer that way. I hope no one will shoot at my car."

Izaki stop near a silvery Lexus, just like Kirishima's, even the child safety seat is the same. A stupid cat figurine is waving at him from the dashboard. Kohai had one in his car — for luck. Where was this lucky charm fifteen minutes ago?

"I know that you're mad, but please sit down," someone asks tiredly from the driver's seat.

Izaki collapses into the front seat, minding his wounded leg, looks right and blinks owlishly, counting moles again as if its number could have changed since high school.

"The chief doctor sent for me, so I gave your keys to an intern, if you're curious."

Izaki is not. He just hugs Kirishima, clutching his hair, stiff from hair spray, in his fist.

Maneki-neko grins impishly into the whiskers.

 

* * *

 

A fast food restaurant, named plainly _Taste_ , is not the most popular eatery among local clerks and school kids. Prices — quite reasonable, by the way, — service or quality of food are not the reason. This place has many regulars: a police station is three minutes away.

Friday night is a busy time, there is a man in uniform or several of them at every table. Those who are dressed in civilian clothes wear jackets that are bulging because of shoulder holsters.

Several newcomers are not troubled by it.

Some regulars are, though.

"The establishment is closed for stock take!" a limping blond well-dressed man announces. His suit can hide a bulletproof vest and a couple of guns. His support team, armed with automatic rifles, politely shepherds guests out.

The limping man slowly approaches the only occupied table, taking the menu from the counter.

"What can you recommend, gentlemen?" he smiles politely at homicide inspectors bowed over their soup bowls.

"I recommend you to get lost," a man around forty with short greying hair and military bearing answers in a husky voice. "While your other leg is still intact. How about that?"

The limping man smiles even wider as if not noticing a gun, pressed into his left knee.

"I like your directness, Kobayashi-keibu. I think I won't beat about the bush." He places several blurred candid camera photos. "This is your daughter Lisa. Is she with her grandmother now? In Tenri? It's nice there, lots of forests around. And the Kasuga temple is almost next door. Unfortunately, I've never been there myself, but my friends are nearby now. They can send a message."

"Hey, you!.." A second gun is thrust into his ribcage.

More photos are laid out between bowls.

"You have a lovely mistress, Noriyama-keibu. Your dear wife would disagree, though. Is Mika-chan a first-year student? I wonder why a young journalist chose an elderly unattractive inspector for a boyfriend... I hope it doesn't have anything to do with her latest articles on crimes. But that's none of my business," he raises his hands in conciliatory gesture. "Who is waiting for you, Modogari-keibu, in an apartment at Shigitsuhigashi is none of my concern too. Did you rent that apartment for him? Oops, I just spilled the beans."

A fat policeman with receding hairline turns purple with rage.

"We got the idea," Kobayashi scowls, puts the gun into the holster, but doesn't snap it closed. "What do you want?"

The limping man gets more comfortable in his chair, straightens his jacket and nods at the waitress, frozen in stupor.

"Coffee, please."

He makes sure his request was understood and returns his attention to the policemen.

"You carried out a shooting at the Minami hospital." His tone becomes harsher. "And I didn't buy insurance for my car, now you owe me a new one. I can take it out in trade, though."

The inspectors look at each other.

"What do you mean?"

The limping man leans forward, putting his elbows on the table.

"You're working for the Misano family. Please," he makes a face when notices that Modogari wants to say something, "It's pointless to argue. Even more so since from now on it's not true. Now you're working for Ryuseikai."

"Your coffee." The waitress puts a cup in front of him with trembling hands. The cup clinks against the saucer.

"I'm sorry, I'm already leaving." The limping man rises carefully, clutching the flimsy chair. "The officers here will pay."

He thrusts a hand into the jacket inner pocket as if he just remembered something. Policemen tense and reach for guns. There is a click of a safety catch from another table.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," the limping man advises. "My friends are twitchy." He takes a crumbled yellowish envelope out. "Here's the address of the intern who was in my car. You owe his family too. Make sure his elderly father and pregnant wife want for nothing, I'll be watching you. Have a nice evening, officers."

The limping man slowly reaches the exit, nods to one of his men who opened the door and vanishes into the sheet of melting snow.

His armed support team leaves right after him, the last one turns the door sign to _OPEN_ again.

 

* * *

 

Serizawa-junsa stops his car near the post office at Taishominamiokayama. He leaves the warm insides of his battered old Nissan and shivers. Snow lies on wet sidewalks in puddles, bites his ears and nose, settles in tiny droplets on his uniform. It's a winter one, but it doesn't save him from February ground freeze.

Serizawa looks at the third-storey window with smoked glass. Fluorescent lamps and vague silhouettes are barely visible through it. How many people are there? Are they armed? It's hard to tell. There are too many of them for one policeman, anyway. They're yakuza, not a parents' committee of an elementary school.

Serizawa puts on his peaked hat and steps to the glass door of the building, noting the working hours sign (Saturday: 9.00 a.m. — 6.00 p.m.) and opens it.

"I'm sorry, we're closing down," the girl at the orange counter without looking up. She is deftly sticking bright post stamps and UPS codes on envelopes. Every fifteen seconds she attaches a rattling seal on an envelope, and one more letter is ready to be sent. The post girl looks tired, but works quickly, it's a delight to look at her.

"I won't be long," Serizawa smiles, noticing her transparent nail polish. He steps around an elderly lady who is putting the change into a purse, and lifts the table flap.

"Wait, this entrance is for personnel only!" the girl turns sharply to face him, notices the badge and the gun and freezes as if she's just realized there's a cop in her office.

"I know, thanks," Serizawa replies good-naturedly and enters the backroom.

There is a small room behind the door with a sign ‘For authorized personnel only’. It's filled with piles of unsorted letters and packages, tucked into strange places. There is an inconspicuous fire escape at the far end of the room.

Staircase smells of humidity, metal steps boom dully, occasional ceiling lamps, round like fire alarms, blink, showing and concealing blotches of mould on the walls.

There is a dirty grey door on the third floor landing. It squeaks loudly when Serizawa opens it.

"Easy!" He raises his hands up, showing open palms. "I came to talk to Misano-san."

"I don't remember him having an appointment." A tall man rises from a sagged leather sofa. His hair is combed back and is covered with so much hair gel it looks greased. The man has a toothpick in his mouth, it looks like he's talking through it.

"Try hair wax," Serizawa offers sincerely, but flitches immediately because he gets hit with the handle of his own gun.

"You think you’re funny, don’t you? I'll send you a wreath with an inscription 'laughed to death'."

"Will you send it from heaven?" Serizawa asks politely. A moment later he doubles over when a punch lands to the back of his head.

"What's the noise about?" A respectable-looking man pokes out of the far room. His suit is expensive and hides his belly well. It can't hide a face of a mobster, though, Serizawa thinks.

"Boss, this clown wants to talk to you."

"A cop?" Misano scratches a brow. "Are you going to arrest me, idiot?"

"I came to make some extra cash," Serizawa corrects him hoarsely. The back of his head and the side still hurt. He thinks about backing out of it before it's too late. "If you please."

"Did you take his gun?" The man with bad hair day nods. "Let's go then. Brave ones amuse me."

Misano leads him to his office, and it's an opportunity to look around. It's a pity Serizawa doesn't notice anything noteworthy, apart from open folders on an empty table. He doesn't have a chance to read a word — the yakuza closes all of them and moves the folder to the edge of the table.

"This is a good place," Serizawa smiles, rubbing a goose-egg on the back of his head. "It's quiet here, and the port is close."

"Did you come to talk about that?" Misano is astonished and annoyed. This plump man about forty doesn't look dangerous, but his reputation precedes him.

"I'm sorry." Serizawa sits on a chair for visitors and twitches. It doesn't get any comfortable so he stops and puts his peaked hat on his knees. "I've heard about your collaboration with homicide detectives." Misano cocks his head to the side and doesn't say a word. "And I wanted to say that it's not the best idea."

"How did you come to that conclusion, I wonder?"

“The thing is these officers are not your loyal allies. If anyone offers them more money they’ll betray even their mothers.”

“How curious.” Misano steeples his fingers. “Do you mean to say that you’re cut of different cloth?”

“You’re at war with Ryuseikai. I want to help you.”

“Why? Do you owe something to someone? Do you need substantial sum of money fast? Or do you need a personal favour from me?”

“I’m not in the position to refuse money,” Serizawa smiles, almost embarrassed. “But I want to get back at Takiya Genji.”

“Are you mixing business with pleasure?” Misano leans back in his comfortable chair. “Tell me what Takiya-kun did to offend you.”

Serizawa feels uncomfortable, not to say gross, like someone is searching his house and politely asks to up-end the laundry basket. And he has to obey or else.

Serizawa collects his thoughts, sort through his memories like clothes before washing: colored to colored, black to black, something has to be thrown away. When the pile of stinking fragments of his past comes to Serizawa’s waist he finally opens his mouth.

“I studied at Suzuran. I think you’ve heard about that school.” Misano nods. “Half of criminals come out of those walls. The other half becomes cops, though. Students fight for the right to be called king of Suzuran every year, but few reach the top. I was one of the top-ranking fighters in my time. The whole school either respected me or was afraid of me, from first-years to third-years. No one openly spoke against me, third-years either supported me or were neutral. I befriended half of their leaders, the rest had to reckon with me. I was the only one in many years who wrote his name on Suzuran’s roof.”

Serizawa feels like he’s a patient of a shrink, like a cop who shot a suspect and now he has to confess to a doctor till his gun is returned. Reality is even worse, though.

In reality he’s sitting in front of a hardened criminal who smells blood like a shark smells blood. And Serizawa’s choice is quite simple: be convincing or be dead.

“Then Takiya Genji came,” Serizawa continues in a flat voice (or he hopes so). “Takiya stole my friends, drew the school into a war with Housen, several of friends ended up in hospital because of him.” Serizawa clenches his fists and prays that he’s not overstepping it. He knows if he’s connected to a lie detector now it wouldn’t even blip, but a yakuza is a more complicated mechanism. “He didn’t need the school, he just wanted to score a point against his father. He didn’t care about me or my people, he didn’t care about anyone, but himself. He didn’t even really need the clan. I don’t think he changed much over the years. I think this man can’t be head of the family. He endangers his people, plunges the town into anarchy. The streets are not safe not even for yakuza, but for katagi too. It’s inexcusable. I know what happened at the Minami hospital. It’s entirely Takiya’s fault. He has to get his due. He has to realize that games are over.”

Misano is silent for a long time, staring at a sickly jade tree on the window sill.

“It needs watering, don’t you think?”

Serizawa opens his eyes, but doesn’t say a thing. He wants to say that Crassula doesn’t like water, especially in winter, but he can’t make a sound like an old battered TV.

“You mentioned the incident at the hospital,” the yakuza says pensively. “It’s curious because several minutes earlier you assured me that my men in the police betrayed me.”

“You know better than me who became its victim. It was not the man you wanted dead. And he deserved it, by the way. Think about it.” Serizawa allowed himself to rest his hands on the table, to come closer to Misano — at least in terms of space. “Why did that happen? Who gained from the accident? Who are your people really working for?”

“It’s a funny assumption,” Misano was tapping his fingers on the elbow rest. It’s a gesture of distress, isn’t it? It’s reassuring for Serizawa. “But it’s only an assumption.”

“Please, don’t jump to conclusions.” Serizawa takes out a rumpled envelope. “Do you recognize them?”

Misano squints near-sightedly, examining rather blurred photos. Despite its low quality the faces are recognizable. There are officers, having their dinner. There is Izaki Shun, Takiya Genji’s aide, offering them an envelope. He’s limping, but happy; he’s like a cat with nine lives, nothing can get him, apart from a direct hit of a nuclear missile.

“I hope you realize that this,” Misano point a finger at the pictures, “doesn’t grant you exemption from verification.”

“Anything you say,” Serizawa shrugs, desperately biting back a wide smile.

“Good,” the yakuza nods pensively. “Recently men from Ryuseikai intercepted valuable cargo that I expected. Return it to me safe and sound, all fourteen boxes, and we’ll talk about my thanks.”

Serizawa stands up, the conversation is over.

“How can I contact you when I’ll have the cargo?”

Misano hands him a plain piece of thick paper with a single phone number and no name.

“You have a week.”

“I think I’ll manage in less.” Serizawa accepts the card with a curt bow.

He takes his gun from the guy with bad hair day, then finally smiles widely.

 

* * *

 

Three days later Serizawa dials the number on the card. Someone picks the phone, but doesn’t say a word.

“Misano-san?” Serizawa decides to skip formalities too. It seems to be a good idea when there is some distance between him and Misano’s men. “I think I have some good news.”

“Tomorrow at ten at Kashihara warehouse.”

The line dies.

A navy pick-up truck arrives there around 10 a.m. Three well-built middle-aged men step out, pull away a canvas and drag heavy plastic boxes off the car.

It’s workday morning, but the warehouse is open.

“We need to pull inside,” an older red-faced man grunts.

“We have to look around first, you idiot,” the second grey-haired man with military bearing cuts him short.

“Are you expecting an ambush, officers?” A yakuza leaves the warehouse. He’s ten years younger than the officers, there’s too much gel in his hair. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

“We brought you a present,” Kobayashi growls.

“Bring it in,” the yakuza allows.

“Do we look like loaders?”

“Shut up, Midoragi,” one of the men says. “We don’t need problems.”

“That’s right,” yakuza smirks. “No one needs problems.”

He opens one of the boxes, nods approvingly and takes a phone out.

“Everything is fine, boss. Cargo is here together with a small compliment from our policeman friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“The cargo was accompanied by our homicide friends.”

“Did it? How curious…”

“What do I do with them, boss?” he asks hopefully. “Should I put them in concrete boots?”

“Stop fretting, Kasugi. Wait for me, I’ll be there shortly.”

 

* * *

 

Serizawa Tamao doesn’t like to be on the carpet, even if the occasion is pleasant. He doesn’t like to wear his parade uniform that he wears two or three times a year. He’s never seen the head of the city police force in person, but he has to start somewhere, right?

Serizawa sits on a visitors’ chair, staring around the room. Oak table is covered by green cloth, there is a portrait of the Emperor on the wall, a map of Bakumazu Japan is hanging on the opposite wall, and there is an award katana with gilded fittings on a stand.

“So, the Misano family disappeared from the criminal map of the town thanks to you. Well, how did you manage that? First you arrested basically top port officials, then you traced their connections to police and arrested Chijuro with a shipment of guns. Where did you get such information?”

Serizawa focused on shiny buttons of the chief’s uniform and shrugs sheepishly.

“Don’t stick the nose in the air, sound carries far away close to the ground. If one puts ear to it one might hear something.”

“Do you mean to say that you had an informant in the clan?”

“A simple policeman?” Serizawa blanches. “It can’t be.”

“Well, well.” the head of the city police rubs his chin. “You did well, Serizawa-kun. Police needs to clean itself in order to function like a living organism; we have to get rid of men who lost face. While Misano… he couldn’t behave: he tried to start a war, to divide the city again. Business is not done that way. Still, next time I want you to contact me first, Serizawa-kun,” he adds with fatherly overtones. “For your own sake.”

“Sometimes circumstances demand immediate action,” Serizawa confesses with sly innocence. “But I’ll try.”

“You do that, Inspector. Now your workload increased three times.”

Serizawa rises and stands to attention. The setting sun reflects off the polished badge, new buttons and warms up his dark eyes, erasing early wrinkles.

“I live to serve the Emperor!”

 

* * *

 

Tatsukawa Tokio frequently visits the jail, it’s his job.

A lawyer ID works its magic on the jail’s personnel: hostile glances don’t go away, but there is respect in their voice and an echo of implementing the law.

Tatsukawa is too young, of course. He knows what sort of impression his custom-made suit, his brief case of Italian leather and impeccable haircut make. He has an idea what the guards think about his relationship with his client. Really, why does a seasoned yakuza, head of the whole clan, need a young boy as a lawyer?

Tatsukawa doesn’t care about this idle gossip, it’s part of his job too.

“Gen didn’t come,” Hideo-san states. He moves the chair away from the table and relaxes as if it were his favourite arm chair at home.

“He couldn’t make it,” Tatsukawa answers, smiling guiltily as if trying to make up an excuse for his old friend. “He asks me to send his regrets and tell you…”

“Save it,” Hideo-san snorts. “He didn’t ask you anything.”

Tatsukawa looks down as if saying, _You know what that thing is about_ , but his smile changes to a relieved one.

“He has a lot on his mind lately,” he explains in a low voice. He knows too well what a right to meet his lawyer means. Even his somewhat unorthodox relationship with Takiya-san is not a guarantee against wiretapping.

“Is that a good or a bad thing?” Hideo-san raises his eyebrow, steepling his fingers over his belly.

“I’d say that it’s a good thing. Maybe today it’ll become even better, but the matter isn’t settled yet. He has a… business meeting now.”

“With whom?”

“I think you’ll guess if I say that there are twenty two of them.”

Hideo stays silent for a long while, staring at Tatsukawa, gauging him. Was he joking or not? Generally, it’s a bad idea to joke about such things. Did he use wrong wording? No, everything is clear as  daylight.

“What about the twenty fourth?”

“You’ll be able to question him personally in a little while,” Tatsukawa smiles.

“He was arrested, wasn’t he? For what crime?”

“Illegal arms trafficking. He tried to buy fourteen boxes guns, rifles and ammo from police inspectors.”

“Where did a police inspector get that amount of guns?”

Tatsukakwa can only shrug.

“Well, most of the toys were not in working order — to say at least — but none of the participants of the deal knew it so the qualification of crime wouldn’t change.”

“It’ll be qualified as an assault, not murder,” Hideo-san notes.

“It’ll be enough for them in any case.”

Takiya-san falls silent again. He knows that Tatsukawa can think of a better way to show his parental appreciation to Genji. He also knows his son wouldn’t believe that his old man said something warm, but he’ll be pleased anyway, even if he won’t show it.

“Children grow up too fast, Tokio,” Hideo-san suddenly shakes his head.

“Me too?” Tatsukawa inquired.

“Do you want to grow up?” the yakuza asks, somewhat amused and mocking.

“I’d gladly change your opinion of me.”

“My opinion?” Hideo-san asks. “Or our relationship?”

Right now Tatsukawa can just shoot the old man down for his well-intoned voice.

He simply takes his jacket off the chair and stand up, though.

 

* * *

 

Takiya Genji sits in an arm chair, covered in lilac velvet, and smokes. Full length mirrors show a black single-breasted suit, well-ironed shirt and a dark-grey tie, dangling under Genji’s collarbones.

Genji smokes, flicking ash into a gilded ash tray, swings his foot in a shiny boot and doesn’t look at the watch because Izaki Shun is doing it.

Once in a while Izaki opens the double doors, leading to the banqueting hall of the Tennoji Miyako Hotel, closes them quietly, looks at his boss and shakes his head.

“Did Serizawa call?” Genji asks lazily, finishes the cigarette and takes another one. He smokes _Seven Stars_ since he was fifteen and never changed the brand. He can’t say it’s his favourite brand. It’s just that he never changes his habits and never forgets everything.

“Yes,” Izaki answers curtly. He tidies the sleeves of his light-blue shirt and rubs his wrist, covered by new watch.

“Let’s give him a present for promotion.”

“Maybe, a car? His patrol car is going to fall apart any day now.”

They look like an old married couple — till their shirts are buttoned, and tattoos are not visible through thin fabric.

“It will be too visible,” Genji shakes his head. “Send him a card of your tailor.”

“Good idea,” Izaki agrees cheerfully. “He’ll go postal.”

Genji throws his head back and exhales a smoke ring, smiling.

“It’s time, boss,” Izaki says, opening the door again. There is a unique mix of respect and friendly dig. “The guests have arrived.”

“All of them?”

“The heads of twenty three families who control Osaka.”

“And we have two votes.”

“For now.”

Genji crushes a cigarette in the ash tray, stands up and rightens his jacket. Izaki carefully tightens Genji’s tie and opens the doors wide.

The doors to the new order.


End file.
